Chapter 2 - Lightning Streaks -

2

 

Lightning Streaks

 

 

 

An early morning August sun greeted my family and me as we left Proctor, Minnesota, and cruised down a long hill that overlooks the western tip of Lake Superior. Below us the towns of Duluth, Minnesota, and Superior, Wisconsin, rimmed the lake’s tip and sprawled out before us; they lay dormant that early hour. From our vantage point, the sister cities were dwarfed by Lake Superior as it opened its arms and stretched forever, disappearing into the horizon.

My younger brother Jeff, nicknamed Nub, his son Drew, my son Alex, and I were poised for the day ahead. I appropriately labeled Nub with his lifelong nickname; it stemmed from an energetic little bear in the children’s book Nubber Bear. It wasn’t unusual to be Flag River bound with my brother, as he had been my main trout fishing partner since my college years. What made this trip more special was having our sons with us. They first tasted the Flag when they were eight, much like me. Now, after several years of trips, they needed smaller amounts of guidance and supervision, which was the natural progression that Nub and I had hoped for.

As we sped forward in Nub’s ‘92 Ford truck, I stared off in the distance. Somewhere eastward along the south shore of the great lake, the Flag River flowed into the blue expanse. While the Flag’s contribution to Lake Superior was but a relative trickle, its contribution to us was much more. Every summer we were drawn to the call of this river that was rich with family memories. It was a gift to have another day on the stream.

Visions of the Lower Flag’s trout-laden waters bounced around in my head. Its slow, meandering current dissolved the worries from even the most stressed fisherman. I should know, for I had spent many a day there through my college years, either fishing it alone or with a partner. Family-named holes like the Hairpin Corner, The Logjam, and Ido’s Stretch crossed my mind. I pictured my brothers as they yanked in rainbows around boulders at The Hairpin. I pictured my dad�"Pops to us�"as he climbed over fallen timber and searched for hidden pockets to fish at The Logjam. And then a scene with my grandfather emerged, as he stood stoically and pulled in a brown at Ido’s Stretch, appropriately named after him. Now those were the days!

Other memories surfaced of more recent trips on the Upper Flag, where the river narrows and tumbles over a rockier path. It’s where Nub and I took our sons on their first trip, introducing them to our craft. Under the river’s grace, the brook trout acted with reckless abandon and we enjoyed the show as the youngsters landed one scrappy trout after another.

I had a treasure chest of good times, but it saddened me that our style of fishing was becoming a lost art. Few and far between were those who strapped on their hip boots and fought their way up a snarled river just to drift a worm for a twelve-inch inland stream trout. Trout fishing on a backwoods stream was tough work. On the surface, it didn’t seem worth the effort, unless you were one of us.

We were worm fishermen. It wasn’t glamorous. Our trips dirtied our hands and soiled our clothes, yet cleaned our minds. We fished in the summer months when the river was relatively low. Our style on the stream was paced, as it was nearly a sin to rush through a day of fishing.

Our close in, underhanded cast style contrasted with the figure of a fly fisherman waving overhead a long strand of line. Our technique used minimal casting space, which allowed us to thoroughly body check the Flag’s brushy quarters. Unlike fly fishermen, bait selection was of minor concern for us, because for the most part, one worm was as good as another. Perhaps us worm fishermen are perceived as dull-minded for not varying our offerings, but then again, perhaps we are highly accomplished for having simplified the fishing equation.

We didn’t sport fancy equipment, drive a showy powerboat, or compete in lake fishing tournaments for walleye or northern pike like some fishermen.  There weren’t any lodges, boat launches, groomed paths, or high-tech gadgets. We had something much deeper though, a family tradition.

With nearly sixty years’ worth of trips under our family’s collective belt, we still participated in this forgotten art with vigor. The brushstrokes of our family’s craft were still enriching, making us whole, and healing the dull wounds inflicted by the modern world.

My thoughts faded as I gazed at the vibrating reflection of a Nut Goodie bar on the dash. That candy bar warmed our trips for years. It was Pops’ favorite bar back when I was a kid, often sharing space on his dashboard as we bumped down a potholed Highway 13 towards the Flag. The confection was first brought to market in the early 1900s, coinciding with when Gramps entered the world.

In the back seat, the boys worked on their version of treats, as they snacked on Fun-Dips and slurped Dr. Peppers. Why they had to eat Fun-Dips so early in the morning was beyond me. Nub and I let this slight of character take place each trip because, well, they were kids, and because it was something they started some years back. So, we embraced it.

“Hey fellas, are the Fun-Dips helping your backs recover from the worm picking last night?” I joked.

“Mine’s fine now,” Alex replied as he stretched.

“How many dozen did we end up with?” I inquired.

“About ten,” Drew answered.

I did some calculating. “We might need to buy more.” I glanced at Nub. “It was good we each pitched in a bit.”

“Yeah,” Nub said, “we’re bound by tradition I guess.”

“We come from a long line of worm pickers alright!”

“That sounds really weird,” the kids spoke up.

“Hey, Gramps and Pops picked worms for many years,” I said. “Pops taught us the ropes early on. There’s a bit of an art to it, wouldn’t you say Nub?”

“You dang right. Most people don’t have a clue."

Although we commonly used store-bought worms, we still clung to our long-standing ways of worm picking. We’d pick a night or two before our trip so the worms were fresh for their day of reckoning.

The key to a successful night out on the lawn was darkness and moisture. Our best nights were after thunderstorms, when the saturated ground forced worms from their holes. If we weren’t blessed with rain, we’d water the lawn instead. On warm evenings, they’d be stretched on the grass, which made for easy picking. However, for the most part, worm picking was a challenge. Only a seasoned worm picker had a prayer at nabbing those lightning quick streaks. Even then, there were many times I missed and I was left holding blades of moist grass.

The serious pickers scooted around on their knees with a flashlight and an empty ice cream bucket. The “knee technique” provided a stable base for nabbing our prey. This technique led to wet pant legs, but it had a successful track record. We also experimented with the “standing” technique, but the worms were long gone before we bent down.

The earthworm is often called a dew worm or night crawler for obvious reasons. They have the girth of a drinking straw but are only half as long. Their downfall is that their slimy brown bodies glisten in the dimmest of light. A schooled veteran shines the beam at an angle and searches the shadowy edges for worms because they are sensitive to direct light. They often leave the scene as proof.

It’s an art to steady the light and trap the worm with one hand. After a successful trap, the flashlight is dropped and the slippery creature is eased from its hole with two hands, and then plopped into a bucket. Sometimes a single-handed pull works, but the bugger often snaps. We don’t keep broken worms because they usually die and spread disease.

We tried different containers over the years, but a plastic gallon ice cream bucket works the best. Coffee cans are serviceable, but they tip easily if bumped. Mom’s Tupperware bowls worked too, but we’d have to sneak them from the kitchen. She had a royal fit when she found out. A desperate picker might stuff their pockets, but I draw the line there.

Worm picking typically kicks off our fishing trips. It’s settle time, when we reminisce and talk about the next day, easing us into the trip’s mental framework.

“Hey, did you ever pick worms with Gramps?” Nub asked.

“Man, you know, I don’t remember for sure,” I answered. “I tried in his back yard, but he wasn’t with me.”

“Did he have any hot spots like us?”

“Probably, but I couldn’t point them out.”

“Remember our go-to spots at Pops’ house, like between the houses and under the lilac tree?” Nub asked with youthful enthusiasm.

“Oh yeah, those spots always came through!”

Nub sat deeper in his seat like he had just finished a big meal.

“I’m still thinking about Gramps’ house,” I said. “Remember that worm container he built against his basement?”

“That’s right!” Nub exclaimed in a revved up voice.

Gramps had made an outdoor worm container that nestled against his house’s foundation so he could pick at his leisure. He dug a hole against his basement window, lined it with a half circle of corrugated metal and filled it with dirt and peat moss to keep it moist.

Nub sported an inquisitive look. “Hey, didn’t that basement have some kind of sausage hanging room?”

“Correct-o-mondo!” I turned to get the kids’ attention. “Boys, here’s a little piece of trivia for you. Your great grandparents had a special room in their basement where they hung their homemade salami and venison sausage for curing. A holdover from native Italy I’d guess. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Pretty weird,” they quickly responded.

“Hold on fellas, that’s not weird. That was your Italian grandparent’s way of life. Their parents did the same thing, and their parents before them,” I reasoned.

“It’s still weird,” they repeated.

“Look, they lived more off the land than we do. Your great grandparents took pride in doing things for themselves instead of running to the supermarket. They drank homemade wine, made sausages, and had a good time.”

Alex straightened up and spoke. “Well, nobody has a sausage room anymore. I’ve never heard of that. Plus, mom always goes shopping anyway.”

I sensed an educational moment on the horizon. “OK. Fine. But what are we doing right now?”

“Ahh, we’re going trout fishing. That’s a no-brainer,” the boys said as they waved their arms around in true Italian form.

“Ah-hah! Why are we going trout fishing when we could buy fish at the store?”

They paused and cobbled together an answer.

“We have fun and you guys have always gone. You know?”

“Oh, I see. So you two go trout fishing because it’s fun, and because your family has been doing it for years,” I said.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Alright guys, maybe your grandparents had a sausage hanging room for the same reasons?”

Silence laced the back seat as their brain synapses popped.

I raised my eyebrows and cocked my chin. “Well?”

A mumbled “yeah” floated up to the front and sprinkled over us.

“Since you guys are young, you probably don’t think about all this stuff. Just remember where you came from, and you’ll be a better person for it.”

I could tell Nub’s inquiring mind was still at work.

“So, how much do you remember about that sausage hanging room?” Nub asked. “I was too young back then.”

“Honestly, only a little. I walked into it a few times�"no sausages though, dang it. It was small with a sandy floor and no windows. Pops remembers it well though.”

Our grandparents designed their sausage hanging room when they built their house. The ceiling was six and a half feet high and irregular in shape because the room was built under the outdoor concrete steps that led into the house above. On each side of the steps was a baseball-sized hole with a mesh screen that allowed outside air to ventilate the sausage room below.

The grand event of sausage making took place in the fall, when the temperature was right for curing. Gramps had his own hand-turned meat grinder that mixed all the meats and spices. They made three-inch diameter salami sticks, tied the ends off with string, and hung them on nails that were in narrow wooden beams that ran across a five-foot wide ceiling. They also made venison sausage by stuffing meats and spices in a long, circular pig intestine casing. The circle ends were tied off and then the sausage was twisted about every four inches along its length to make links. The sausage circle was then hung on the nails to cure.

It took about two months to complete the curing process. Air humidity was key, which is where the sand came into play. Gramps checked the room often to ensure there was enough moisture to assist the curing process. If it became too dry he’d add water to the sand floor, which slowly evaporated, keeping a constant humidity level. Pretty clever I thought.

The sight of the finished product was a bit peculiar. In late fall, the sausage room showcased a bunch of moldy objects suspended from the ceiling at eye level. The mold was only on the outer skin of the sausage and was easily removed before eating. The aroma, however, was outstanding! The room’s moisture accentuated all the smells that the herbs, spices, and meats could deliver.

Now that’s Italian!